


Blind Allegiance

by DeathBelle



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: A touch of gore, Blood, Guns, M/M, Sexual Content, Tattoos, explicit violence, yakuza!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 08:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20793683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathBelle/pseuds/DeathBelle
Summary: When Oikawa had set out to make a name for himself in the gritty underworld of the yakuza, he had demanded respect with a smile on his face, a gun in his hand, and Iwaizumi by his side. Anyone on the outside looking in would have wondered why Iwaizumi had sacrificed so much – his family, his morals, his future – for Oikawa’s twisted ambitions. They wouldn’t have understood why Iwaizumi had made his decisions, and he wouldn’t have expected them to. Sometimes even he wondered how he’d ended up there, caught up in the violent affairs of the yakuza. He wondered, but when he looked at Oikawa, everything became clear.





	Blind Allegiance

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Mafia Zine. It's a standalone one-shot and has nothing to do with The Loyalty of a Traitor.

When Iwaizumi was a child, he watched a lot of gangster movies.

There were more of them than he could recall, brutal stories about mobs, mafias, and street gangs. All of those had been branded with subtitles, but the bloody tales of the yakuza had been filmed in his own language. He thought he’d seen every movie in production about Japan’s unsavory underworld.

The thing was, Iwaizumi had never liked those movies. He wasn’t the one who’d been obsessed with them. 

Those films had been highly inaccurate, although Iwaizumi hadn’t known that at the time. They depicted gunfights as loud and chaotic affairs. Bullets flew like barflies, and if anyone made it out alive, they considered it a miracle.

In truth, there was nothing loud about it. Iwaizumi had checked the silencer on his Glock an hour before, when he’d tucked it into the holster beneath his jacket. There was no brave and daring entrance, nor a declaration of war. He crossed the street quietly, sticking to the shadows for anonymity, with Kyoutani following only a step behind. At first, Kyoutani had been the stereotypical gangster in those old movies; prone to berserker rages and unprovoked outbursts. Over the years he’d settled under Iwaizumi’s tutelage, and now he was a reliable asset.

Iwaizumi could have kicked the door in. That’s what the mobster heroes in the films would have done. Instead, he dropped to one knee and slipped a self-made lockpick out of his pocket. The tumblers gave after only a few seconds of effort. Iwaizumi stood, gave Kyoutani a look, and the two of them unholstered their guns as one.

Iwaizumi settled his grip, took a breath, and shoved the door open with his shoulder.

There was no wave of bullets buzzing over his head, no throat-tearing screams. There was stillness and silence, and four startled men staring back. 

The gun kicked into Iwaizumi’s palm as he fired. He squeezed off three shots, each one no louder than a cough, and three men hit the floor.

The fourth had found his feet, but that was all he could do before Kyoutani darted forward and cracked the butt of his gun into the man’s jaw. He staggered, and Kyoutani aimed a sharp kick at the back of his leg, forcing him to his knees. He yanked the man’s jacket open, seized the gun strapped beneath, and slapped it down on a table out of his reach.

Kyoutani looked to Iwaizumi, received a nod, and retreated to stand by the door.

“Watanabe Izuki,” said Iwaizumi. He stepped in front of the kneeling man, who raised his head to watch Iwaizumi with wide, horrified eyes. “You stole money from Seijoh. I’m here to collect.”

The man paled, his skin ghastly gray. He spat blood onto the floor. “Seijoh,” he repeated numbly. “You’re with Seijoh.”

Iwaizumi raised the gun and eyed him over the barrel. “Tell me where to find Oikawa’s money.”

There was no hesitation, no resistance. “There’s a safe under the desk,” said Watanabe Izuki, the words blurring in his haste to speak them. “It’s all there. I’ll tell you the code.”

Iwaizumi gestured for Kyoutani without looking at him. Obediently, Kyoutani paced across the room, knelt by the desk, and entered the numbers as their captive spoke them. When Kyoutani emerged, it was with a stack of cash. He slapped it into the waiting palm of Iwaizumi, who tucked it inside his jacket.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” said Iwaizumi. His aim hadn’t wavered. “I’ll give you a quick death.”

“No, wait. Please,” said Watanabe, raising his hands in surrender. “I gave you the money. I cooperated, I-”

“You stole from Oikawa,” said Iwaizumi, unmoved. 

“I will give Oikawa-san my deepest apologies,” he begged. 

“He doesn’t care for your apologies.” 

“I have more money,” said Watanabe. “Lot of it, stashed around the city. You can have it, you can have all of it. Just spare me. I’ll leave the city. I’ll leave the country. No one will ever hear from me again, no one will ever know.”

“I don’t want your money,” said Iwaizumi. His finger curled around the trigger. “I want your life. That’s the price of crossing Seijoh.”

The man’s desperation morphed into anger. He sneered up at Iwaizumi, hands falling to his sides and balling into fists. “Only dogs choose loyalty over money. That’s all you are. Oikawa’s fucking _dog_.”

He was trying to strike a nerve, and he failed.

Iwaizumi’s face didn’t change as he pressed the barrel of the gun in the center of the man’s forehead. “Yeah,” said Iwaizumi. “I am.”

Disgust was the last thing that flashed across the man’s face. One gunshot later, his brains spewed across the concrete wall, a spray of gory graffiti. He slumped to the side and Iwaizumi wiped the barrel of his gun clean on the man’s jacket before sliding it back into its holster. He turned away from the corpse, unfazed, and took out his phone.

Oikawa answered on the first ring. “Finished already?”

“Yeah,” said Iwaizumi. “They’re all dead.”

“Good,” said Oikawa. “Burn the place down. Don’t leave anything behind.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you, Hajime,” said Oikawa, his voice dipping into a purr. 

Iwaizumi didn’t allow himself to react. He couldn’t, not when he still had work to do. He ended the call and turned to Kyoutani, who waited patiently by the door. “Get the kerosene out of the car,” he said. “We’re going to need all of it.”

  
  
  
  
  
An hour later, Iwaizumi and Kyoutani arrived at a populated nightclub, grim-faced and smelling of a housefire. The bouncer waved them inside and the crowd parted for them, either sensing the danger deep in their bones or startled into subservience by the scowl on Iwaizumi’s face. They stepped behind the bar, past Kindaichi, who was mixing a cocktail, and through the door that led to the area of the club inaccessible to the public. It was darker back there, stripped of the festive façade that catered to the public. They were convinced that this was only a nightclub, and they were very wrong.

“Head on down,” said Iwaizumi, when they reached a set of stairs that split the floor. “I’ll report to Oikawa.”

Kyoutani nodded and descended to the basement level that, according to the building’s blueprints, should not have existed. Iwaizumi lingered, listening to the fading footsteps and the pulse of the music from the beyond the walls. When he moved, it was in the opposite direction. He ascended the stairs and stepped onto the upper floor, a flat spit of hallway leading to a single door. He let himself in without knocking, which would have earned anyone else a scalding reprimand and the risk of physical retaliation.

But Iwaizumi wasn’t just anyone else.

“Welcome back,” said Oikawa. “I’ve been waiting.”

He sat behind a desk, a pair of glasses perched on his nose and a spread of papers strewn in front of him. It was almost a typical office, aside from the view. The room overlooked the club from above, a loft with a wall of clear windows. Iwaizumi could see down to the first level, where the nightclub’s activities were at their peak. Anyone looking in from below would have seen only opaque black glass. 

Iwaizumi tucked a hand into his jacket as he crossed the room. He tossed the stack of money onto the desk and folded his arms. “Here. I didn’t count it, but it looks about right.”

Oikawa slipped off his glasses and set them aside. He blinked a few times to reorient his vision. “This wasn’t about getting my money back,” he said. “It was about teaching a lesson. Keep it, Hajime. A tip for your good work.”

“I don’t want it,” Iwaizumi scoffed. “I have no interest in blood money.”

“Oh?” said Oikawa. His mouth curled into a dangerous smile. “Isn’t that why you work for me? Because I pay you well?”

Iwaizumi’s scowl was unshakable. “You know that’s not why I’m here.”

Oikawa hummed, complacent. He stood and circled the desk, stalking closer. “Why then, Hajime?”

“You know why.”

“Maybe I do,” said Oikawa. He stopped only a step away from Iwaizumi, smug smile still in place. “Remind me.”

Iwaizumi looked away. “Fuck off.”

Oikawa traced the line of Iwaizumi’s jaw. “If anyone else spoke to me like that, I’d kill them.”

Iwaizumi frowned up at him. “Why don’t you do it, then?”

“You know why.”

“Exactly,” said Iwaizumi, his point proven.

Oikawa’s eyes were bright, from pleasure or amusement. He leaned closer, his breath dusting Iwaizumi’s cheek. His voice dipped lower as he murmured, “You stink.”

Iwaizumi pushed him a step back. “I smell like your dirty work.”

“You smell like arson,” said Oikawa. His smirk was vexing. “Who would have ever thought Iwaizumi Hajime, of all people, would turn out like this?”

Iwaizumi’s scowl was a sharp slice across his forehead. He turned on his heel and stomped to the glass wall, glaring down at the club below. The nighttime revelers were dancing, captivated by the alcohol and the atmosphere, oblivious to the men who plotted above and below. They didn’t know the club had been built by the income of Oikawa’s illicit endeavors. They didn’t know about the lives that had been snuffed out during Oikawa’s ascent to power.

Oikawa had taken many of those lives himself, but Iwaizumi couldn’t deny his role in the bloody affair. He’d learned from a young age that when Oikawa decided he wanted something, he was willing to do anything necessary to get it. 

Oikawa was the one who had been obsessed with all things yakuza, back when they were kids. Iwaizumi had been an innocent bystander, at first, but that hadn’t lasted. He’d always been trapped in Oikawa’s orbit. When this had first begun, it would have been in Iwaizumi’s best interest to separate himself so he didn’t catch fire when his best friend went up in flames. Iwaizumi knew, yet ten years later, he was still just as weak to Oikawa’s chaos as he’d ever been.

When Oikawa had set out to make a name for himself in the gritty underworld of the yakuza, he had demanded respect with a smile on his face, a gun in his hand, and Iwaizumi by his side. Anyone on the outside looking in would have wondered why Iwaizumi had sacrificed so much – his family, his morals, his future – for Oikawa’s twisted ambitions. They wouldn’t have understood why Iwaizumi had made his decisions, and he wouldn’t have expected them to. Sometimes even he wondered how he’d ended up there, caught up in the violent affairs of the yakuza. He wondered, but when he looked at Oikawa, everything became clear.

“Come on, Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa. He reached for Iwaizumi, but his hand was smacked away. “I was only kidding.” He pressed himself against Iwaizumi’s back and nestled into his hair, inhaling. “I like it. It smells like a job well done.”

“Get off me.”

Oikawa didn’t move. Iwaizumi hadn’t expected him to.

“You know I would have gone with you,” said Oikawa. His hands slipped beneath Iwaizumi’s jacket, spreading over his chest. “I would have killed them myself.”

“I know,” said Iwaizumi. He did know, all too well. On more occasions than he cared to recall he’d seen just how far Oikawa was willing to go to protect the status he’d carved out for himself. Oikawa had killed often, and always with that slightly manic smile. “We didn’t know anything about them,” said Iwaizumi. “They could’ve been dangerous.”

“You were protecting me?” asked Oikawa, his humor evident in the lilt of his voice. “How noble, Hajime.”

“Shut up,” said Iwaizumi. “Someone has to look after you. If I wasn’t around, you would’ve gotten your stupid ass killed a long time ago.”

“Maybe so,” murmured Oikawa, directly into Iwaizumi’s ear. “I’m lucky to have you.” He peeled himself away and stepped back.

Iwaizumi turned and was shoved against the wall, Oikawa’s hands pressed against the glass on either side of his shoulders. Oikawa leaned close, his breath warm against Iwaizumi’s lips.

“Thanks for taking care of me, Hajime,” said Oikawa, his stare smoldering and his smirk infuriating. He cupped Iwaizumi’s face, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone. “What would I do without you?”

“Find someone else to annoy, probably,” said Iwaizumi. He fitted a hand around Oikawa’s hip, pulling him closer. 

Oikawa hummed and dipped his head to nose at the line of Iwaizumi’s jaw. His lips dragged over the faintest hint of stubble and Iwaizumi’s grip tightened. 

“It wouldn’t be the same,” said Oikawa. He stood upright, and though Iwaizumi had always been bitter that Oikawa was the taller between them, he’d gotten used to looking up at him. “Nothing would ever be the same without you.” Oikawa slid a knee between Iwaizumi’s legs, pressing into him with his thigh. 

Iwaizumi sucked in a breath. He rutted against Oikawa’s leg, a curl of warmth unfurling in his gut. Oikawa had always had the ability to unravel him with a simmering look and a fleeting touch. It had started in high school, and back then, Iwaizumi had assumed the intensity of his feelings would fade with age. Ten years had passed since then, and Oikawa still had just as much power over him. Iwaizumi was so weak for him that it was pathetic. The only comfort was that Oikawa was just as vulnerable for Iwaizumi.

Oikawa kissed him, a little too rough and a little too desperate. Oikawa could make jabs all he wanted, but he liked the thought of Iwaizumi killing for him, and Iwaizumi knew it. It was obvious in the glazed yet sharply present look in his eyes, in the heat that pressed into Iwaizumi’s thigh.

Oikawa was fucked up, but Iwaizumi was no better. They’d spilled enough blood between them to drown the city, to flood a lake. They’d set out on this path of crime and murder together, and Iwaizumi knew when they reached the end of the line, it would be side-by-side, just as they’d begun.

Oikawa spread his hands over Iwaizumi’s chest again, long fingers tugging at the buttons of his shirt. The back of his hand nudged the holster resting against Iwaizumi’s ribs, the worn leather cradling the gun he’d used to snuff out a handful of lives only a couple of hours before. Oikawa knew that, and his mouth pulled into a grin as he traced the edge of the gun. “Iwa-chan always has to keep his gun close. I think you’d wear it in the shower if you could.”

“Yeah, I would,” said Iwaizumi, as Oikawa popped another pair of buttons. “Maybe it would keep you from creeping up on me when I’m trying to wash my damn hair.”

“Complain all you want,” murmured Oikawa. He peeled Iwaizumi’s shirt collar to the side and kissed his neck, lips warm and dragging. Iwaizumi clenched his fists and tried not to react. “I know you like it when I join you.”

Oikawa flicked open the last button and slipped his hand beneath Iwaizumi’s shirt, feeling along his ribs and up to his chest. His teeth slid against Iwaizumi’s neck, prompting the shudder Iwaizumi had tried to suppress.

Oikawa took a half step back and pushed Iwaizumi’s shirt open, taking in the sight as if he hadn’t seen it a thousand times before. Light fingertips traced the tattoos inked from Iwaizumi’s collarbone down his chest and his ribs, lingering where they disappeared into the waistband of his pants. Iwaizumi had gotten more tattoos since, but that one was the first, acquired with his official induction into the yakuza. The colors were still bright; deep gold and scalding red. It was a crowing phoenix, half in feathers, half in flame.

Oikawa’s fingers curled into the edge of Iwaizumi’s slacks. The sound of the zipper was hushed, as was the rustle of clothing as Iwaizumi’s pants were pushed down his thighs. 

Oikawa held his stare, eyes dark and smoldering, his hand slipping lower. 

Iwaizumi sucked in a breath. Years before, he’d been embarrassed by how eagerly he’d responded to Oikawa. That look alone was enough to make him weak, even without the wandering touches.

With time he’d learned to accept it. Iwaizumi Hajime was strong and unforgiving. He had killed more times than he could count and would surely kill that many times more. He was not swayed by threats or bribery, and had always scoffed at those who begged for their lives.

He had only one weakness, and he’d accepted that it was Oikawa.

Oikawa kissed him, deep and filthy, his tongue pushing between Iwaizumi’s lips. The sound in Iwaizumi’s throat was halfway between a growl and a moan. 

“I missed you, Hajime,” said Oikawa, the words murmured against Iwaizumi’s mouth.

“I saw you this morning.”

“A single minute without you is too long.”

Iwaizumi would have scoffed at that, but the sight of Oikawa sinking down in front of him was a welcome distraction.

Prideful Oikawa Tooru didn’t get on his knees for anyone.

Iwaizumi was the only exception.

Oikawa’s mouth was hot, and the way he watched Iwaizumi was scalding. Iwaizumi pressed his back against the glass and tilted his head back, sucking in a gasp as Oikawa’s tongue moved against him.

An iron grip squeezed around Iwaizumi’s thighs, Oikawa’s nails digging into flesh. Iwaizumi looked down at him, and though Oikawa said nothing, the message was clear in the sharpness of his eyes.

_Watch me_.

Iwaizumi did. He slipped a hand into Oikawa’s hair, grasping lightly. He watched as Oikawa sank down and pulled back and sank down again, far enough to choke himself, far enough to bring tears beading at the corners of his eyes. 

Iwaizumi’s breath was uneven, hitching each time Oikawa moved, his pulse galloping just beneath his skin. 

They’d been together like this for years, but each time was just as good as the last.

Iwaizumi’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening in copper hair. Oikawa’s stretched lips quirked into a smile as he sank all the way down.

Pleasure tore through Iwaizumi like gunfire. He threw his head back, hardly aware of the thump of his skull against the windows. His gritted teeth muffled his moan as his hips bucked against Oikawa, who remained plaint as his throat worked to swallow.

When Oikawa pulled off, the suction of his lips leaving Iwaizumi clean, he sat back on his heels with a smug grin. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and looked up at Iwaizumi. “Feeling better, Iwa-chan? You seem less tense.”

Iwaizumi was too relaxed to squabble with him. He adjusted his pants just enough to make himself decent and dropped to his knees. He took Oikawa’s face in his hands – his skin soft between calloused palms, too soft for a hardened killer – and kissed him. He tasted himself on Oikawa’s tongue.

Oikawa traced the planes of his chest, exposed by the open flaps of his shirt. He likely would have shoved it off completely if the leather holster hadn’t been snug over Iwaizumi’s shoulders, pinning the shirt in place.

“Come downstairs with me,” said Oikawa. It was a request with the tone of a demand. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

“Good,” said Iwaizumi. He sucked at Oikawa’s bottom lip. “I’ll never be finished with you.”

Oikawa kissed him, deeply enough to steal Iwaizumi’s breath. “Iwa-chan is always so romantic after he gets off.”

“Fuck you.”

Oikawa huffed a laugh, his teeth stinging as they nipped at Iwaizumi’s lip. He stood, fluidly, and adjusted the front of his pants as he stepped toward the door. “Come on then, Hajime. Let’s turn in for the night.”

That’s what he said, but Iwaizumi knew that neither of them would be sleeping for a while yet. Despite his exhaustion from the day’s job, and the weariness that tugged at the corners of his consciousness, he immediately climbed to his feet.

Oikawa had led Iwaizumi into some situations that he preferred not to think about, situations that should have made him sick. He’d seen more death than he cared to recall, nightmare visions of blood and gore and mangled corpses.

It wasn’t what Iwaizumi would have asked for, if he’d been given the choice, but he’d never complained. Some things were worth the sacrifice. One thing – one _person_ – in particular.

Oikawa stepped into the hallway and Iwaizumi followed, as he always had, as he always would.


End file.
